Years Past
by Guille van Cartier
Summary: When Clopin was 13 his caravan stops at a small village in Spain, where an adventure unexpectedly waits. There they deal with gypsy-racist women, a "stolen" birthday present, a bossy cousin, and a VERY happy young woman. No Mary-Sues. It DOES have a plot.
1. Default Chapter

**A/N**: Okee dokee my peeps (okay...sad attempt). I, Mr. Nieby Camat Poto, the opera-singing, mask-wearing muse to Mademoiselle Guille van Cartier, forward to you a personal thank you for those who are on their way to reading this piece of fiction! Here it is, her third on The Hunchback of Notre Dame, the second on Clopin Trouillefou, whose face seems to plague the near empty halls of her mind (you should see some of the stuff in here...it is disturbing). No Mary Sues, so none should worry, though a certain character is a little flirtatious (Emily, Forgive us, but your portrayal is vile). So, if you're still there, please continue. OH! And some of the words she uses are an attempt at French and Spanish (which she and I know NOTHING of) may be incorrect, so if any of you there are adept at the languages or just know more than us, then write to us if we did something wrong. Thank you, and please continue. Read and Review, preferably constructive criticism, but give me whatever you got.

**Disclaimer**: No, I don't own Clopin. He does not live in the basement of my house, and that's not only just because I don't have a basement. So, if you would be so kind, stop coming to my house and looking for him. No, visiting hours have not changed, Serina, and it's never going to change, so stop asking. Now, if you excuse me, I'm going up to the attic to converse with my "reference".

**Prologue**: Eggs

The main square was in an uproar.

People rushed about in circles yelling, unsure of exactly what had happened, others grouped together in hopes of discovering just what. Those who knew explained in quick Spanish tongue just what they had been able to see, before, during and after the incident, whatever little amount they knew. The chickens that were set inside the small wooden cages that lined the buildings forming the square began to squawk with fright. Their flightless wings were fluttering up and down sending white and brown feathers onto the sandy ground of the forum, soon to be trampled by those who hurried about in wonder.

What was the reason for such ado? None other than the screaming rotundity that sat, half-shrieking, half-crying, against the outer wall of her store. Señora Gloria Adelyn Gutierrez Mercado (owner of the smartly, or stupidly, named Mercado's Mercado) was bawling loudly, her greasy, tangled hair dripping with a slimy mixture of raw yolk, albumen, and brown cracked shell.

"¡Diablo!" She screamed. "The devil has done this to me! Dios Mio, what have I done to deserve this, Dios Mio? I have done your bidding! I have even chased away many Niños y Niñas de Gitanos! Why, Dios Mio? Dios Mio!"

Among the crowd, there stood the gypsy children that she spoke about, laughing guiltily, though it was only barely their faults that such a thing had happened to the woman. They weren't cruel, though they felt spite toward the woman for denying them food, which they were trying to buy earlier on, but were instead shooed out of the store, chased away with a broom and belt. They were about to leave, but before they could, the eggs had cracked on her skull and they couldn't help but stay and watch. Gloria Mercado hated the gypsies, it was known completely about the town; for it was occasional that gypsy tribes would pass through, and they were shown the same brand of hospitality form the portly woman.

Also standing in the throng that surrounded the screaming woman was a man, capped with a ridiculous-looking purple, wide-brimmed hat, topped with a yellow feather. The hat was worn and torn, but still useful for blocking out the Spanish sun. He stood at the front, watching with a sort of grim amusement (for he held a great dislike for the woman; she carried around a disagreeable odor that could render anyone cranky), as unhelpful as the others. Soon enough, another man broke through the tight crowd, striding with difficulty over to the hat-wearing man, apparently a friend. He placed a large hand on his acquaintance's shoulder to gain his attention.

"¿Que pasa, amigo?" he asked, glancing at the woman who was still yelling for help. The man with the hat turned to his friend, just then truly aware of his presence, then replaced his sight on Señora Mercado.

"Eggs just fell from the sky on Senora's head," he replied casually, as if there was not much out of the ordinary about the whole thing.

"¡Válgame Dios!" his friend exclaimed, surprised. He peered at the woman with a new interest. "You're not serious! It must have been an idiot who told you that one, amigo."

"Truly?" The man with the hat asked dryly, pulling down his brim, the sun beginning to irk him. "If that's how you take it, then I guess it wouldn't be much good telling you that I saw them fall, is it?"

His friend lifted his eyebrows in surprise, then began to scratch the back of his head, flustered.

"I hadn't known, friend. Forgive me," he said, patting his comrade on the back, smiling and laughing. "Did you really see those eggs, and are you sure their from the sky?"

"I swear it," the man replied. He lifted one brown finger up to the pale blue of the distant sky, just above the cracked brick of the store's roof, where not a cloud floated across. "It was there," he said, "I saw them. I was looking away from the sun, I remember and saw them coming down and falling on the Señora's head. She fell over screaming just a second later."

"That's odd," His friend said, gazing, perplexed, at the spot that the capped man had just moments ago been pointing too. "Eggs falling from the sky, onto the head of one of the most pious women in town."

The man with the hat snorted at the thought, pulling his brim down so as to hide his laughter from Gloria, who had finally begun to quiet her screaming, and making an attempt at getting up (which was, apparently, more difficult than it seemed).

"Pious?" He snickered, trying to hold in whatever laughter he felt might burst from within him. "If that's your word for it, you must be unschooled. That old bitch doesn't know the difference from Mother Mary and Mary Magdelene." He snorted once more. "Pious, indeed."

"Don't be so vulgar, amigo," his friend scolded, shaking a finger at the hatted man. Then, he turned his attention back at the egged woman, who was now getting assistance from some poor farmer that had taken pity on her. "Eggs falling from the sky...it must be the work of gypsies..."

Just above the scene, atop the already mildewing brick and mortar of the mercado, two boys sat, snickering to themselves, as they listened to the struggle that the woman and the farmer were having trying to get the Senora on her feet. They were hidden from view by a small upright ledge that cast a slight shadow over their crouched backs, which they stooped beside so as not to be caught by some wandering eye. Beside them was an old wicker basket, one that, back then, eggs would have been kept in. One of the handiwork of the Senora herself. The man below, standing by his purple-hatted friend, was more accurate on his theory than he truly thought, though the means that the gypsies had cast the eggs upon the head of the woman below was none more magical than he himself would have been able to procure. The two boys, quivering with unreleased laughter, were the imps, the vagabonds, and the gypsies who had done it. They were of a troupe that had just entered the village about a week before, and they went by the names of Homer and Clopin.

These two were the mischief makers of their caravan, marked for us by their latest prank, and they found great joy in what they did, though their family members frowned upon their doings, claiming that it worsened the already bad reputation that the gypsies unfairly carried. But that only barely stopped their odd little shenanigans. That was just their nature.

Clopin, of the two, was the eldest at thirteen, though probably only by a couple of months or so. Only rags clothed him, like his partner, most of them just patches of fabric seemingly picked up from here and there during their travels and stitched together crudely. His hair was short, reaching just barely below his earlobes, which had an earring hanging off the right one. He had a goofy grin, which was set beneath a nose fit for Pinocchio. He was very thin, as if he hadn't eaten much, but he was slightly muscular and his limbs were supple, a very handy characteristic when one lived a vagabond life. Laughter shone in those ebony eyes of his.

Homer, on the other hand, felt a different type of satisfaction from the egging of the old racist woman. Though he had almost the same expression of happiness from the action, in his eyes, black as his cousin's, shimmered a bit of remorse, an uncertainty toward the prank for he knew not what was to happen afterwards. Clopin and he looked rather different from one another, him being very round and portly, with a nose as strong as Clopin's was long. He was a bulky person, whose clothes just barely fit and was due for another set of patches soon. His hair was as tangled and long as his comrade's but he wore over it a sort of purple bandanna. He was Clopin's best friend, pulled in totally by awe for the boy.

The uproar was beginning to come to a close, and this is when the two decided that there task was done. Clopin took the wicker basket, set it firmly beneath his arm, and began to crawl his way to the side edge of the roof that led to an old alleyway. There, two uprights of an old ladder peeked just barely over the verge, leaning against the crooked edge. This, Clopin began to shimmy down, barely supported on the remaining rungs. Half-way down, he jumped straight from the ladder onto the hard, sandy ground of the byway, the final half of the ladder's steps either too rotted or already gone.

Clopin went to the far back of the alley, where there was set a wall of clay brick, separating the backyard of the mercado. Though a good, solid wall it was, Clopin would've found it rather easy to climb over it; but he did not take the trouble. With a strong arm, he grasped the edge of the basket and promptly flung it over the high edge, where seconds later it could be heard landing with a barely audible thump upon the sparse grass of the back lawn.

Then, a contented smile set upon that thin face, Clopin replaced himself at the ladder's foot, where he put his fingers to his mouth and gave out a long shrill whistle. It must have been a signal, for seconds later, grasping the poles of the ladder with his two huge hands, Homer was seen climbing over the brink of the store (by Clopin only of course). He, like his friend, quit his use of the rungs at the halfway point, but instead slid down the remaining length by use of the uprights, being much less courageous and taking claim to much less shockproof legs than his cousin. Soon enough, he was standing beside his cousin, leaning against the wall of the adjacent guitar shop, his breathing quick from a sort of invigoration. The two were very much heated by the sweltering heat of the Spanish sun, and took to resting in the shadows of the shaded alleyway, their eyes still shining with a grim satisfaction. But the lads could not contain laughter so easily. Soon enough, they were bursting with laughter, Clopin holding his sides, Homer grabbing his shaking belly.

Their laughter bounded across the street into the square and was heard by many, but regarded seriously by few, for the uproar caused by those falling eggs had yet to completely die down. And, of the few that heard and wondered about the galloping chuckles seemingly originating from some hidden spot, only one was interested enough to investigate, for she knew those voices and those chortles as well as she may know the names of her own kindred. Unfortunately for them, neither would realize who this person was until too late, for at the moment, not a thought was given to whoever may have heard their rolling laughs, and all was focused on the satisfaction that they felt.

Once the spell was done, Clopin sighed contentedly and slid down the wall of the building he leant against and took a seat on the floor. He was still giving out slight giggles, the highness that he had felt not yet ebbing. Homer promptly took a seat beside him, smiling widely, despite that remaining shimmer of uncertainty that remained.

"Did you hear the way the old cur yelped?" Clopin asked, half his words laced with snickers.

"How couldn't I, amigo?" Homer asked, slapping his knee. "The way she was going on, you'd think we shot her with an arrow!"

Clopin put a hand to his chin.

"Good idea, but a little too violent, mon ami," he said after several moments of mock-deliberation. "Besides, I never was a good shot with arrows; I wouldn't want to hit some other poor dog, would I?"

Homer smiled and laughed lightly at his friend's joke.

"I think it would serve her right, amigo," Homer said, smiling. Then, lifting a triumphant fist into the dusty air he yelled (though a little quietly, for he was still cautious after their prank) "¡Viva el gitanos!"

Clopin laughed, agreeing strongly, waving his own fist in the air with a "hear, hear!" Then, each taking a sigh, both started their way to calming down a bit, and their laughter began to wane, leaving the comrades in near silent happiness.

After several seconds, Clopin smiled.

"Eggs...how do I think up these things?" he asked nobody in particular, though he suspected that there were only two in their location who had a right or knowledge to answer. But there was where his assumption proved rather inaccurate.

"Clopin, you imbecile, that was you?" 

The two jumped near out of their rags and patches, startled by the sudden sounding of a woman's voice, though Clopin was a good enough actor to hide his surprise (Homer on the other hand yelped like a little girl). Clopin didn't even need to look up to realize just who it was, standing hands-on-hips at the mouth of the alley, scolding words clinging to her tongue, waiting for a chance to leap out and strike. The voice was enough, though there were few words spoken, for he and Homer had come to face the owner of that voice so many times before. Sadly, it was not someone whom the two necessarily vied for attention from. Yet, she always had some reason to bother them.

"Ah, dear sister!" Clopin started, a broad, charming smile playing his wide mouth. "Yes, it is a lovely day, isn't it? And I'm fine, thank you very much for asking!"

Serina shook her head, irked, her usually fair face (an opinion held by everyone but Clopin and Homer) very much distorted with anger and disappointment, but mostly anger. Though Clopin had used the word sister to describe her, it was not in a literal sense. She just acted a certain way that could be associated with the annoying qualities of an elder, more rule-abiding sibling. She was more or less a cousin to him, daughter of his uncle Mathaias, and at fifteen years of age. She had long black hair, tied back into a loose ponytail, un-brushed but tangled considerably less than most of the other gypsy children that she had traveled with. She was just about as stuck-up (in Homer's opinion) as a gypsy was then allowed.

"Don't be stupid, Clopin," she said, anger brewing behind those brown eyes of hers. "Why did you have to do that?"

"I haven't the slightest what you're going on about, my dear Serina," Clopin said, talking to her in a somewhat condescending manner, despite her age-advantage over the two. "Do what?"

"You know very well what I mean, Clopin," Serina said, baring her teeth. "Don't be stupid."

Clopin gasped in an overly exaggerating (and for Serina aggravating) manner.

"Me? Stupid? Why, such harsh words from such a small mouth!" Clopin said, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "And an accusation to boot. I don't know how you can say such a thing, dear sister! Why I would never do the thing that you think I did, though you did not tell me what it was even when I asked, and so have no right in scolding and interrogating me."

He said this all in such quick succession that it took several moments for Serina to register what he had meant, and several moments longer for poor Homer (though he nodded his head as Clopin had said them). Afterwards, however, Serina scowled ever the more.

"You're so immature, Clopin," she said. Clopin smiled, leapt up off the ground and bowed, arms stretched out in an exaggerated manner.

"Why thank you, dearest!" he said, his smile wide. Serina's scowl worsened.

"That wasn't a compliment, idiot!" She screeched.

"Only an idiot would say that!" he replied, laughing. The woman crossed her arms, and glared at him piercingly. This only barely fazed Clopin, who's smile became smug and his glance slightly superior. Annoyed to little tiny bite sized bits by her cousin's attitude, she grabbed him roughly by the collar of his ripped cowl and brought him straight up to her face.

"Don't give me that attitude, young man!" She said in a threatening whisper. Usually, and probably with anyone other than the gypsy prince, she would have been able to frighten them into quick submission with this tactic, for though she wasn't as tall as others, there was something about those eyes that sparked a vague glimpse of what might happen to them if they didn't listen. But, being whom he was, Clopin just smiled and looked away from her.

"I don't know what you want to do with me, being so close," he began, "but I think contact like that is against my religion, so I must be going now!" And, with those words, he flipped away, quickly.

It took Serina, smart though she was, several swift-passing moments to realize that her cousin had disappeared from her tight grasp, and that her fingernails were digging irefully into her own palm. Once notice was taken of this, she released her anger-induced fist and let whatever open cut there was drip slowly onto the sand of the street. She sighed, and shook her head, a sort of forced calm coming over her.

"Alright, Clopin," Serina began, crossing her arms against her chest, trying to be at least a little tolerant of the gypsy prince's antics, "just tell me this. How many eggs did you drop, and how much money did you waste, I mean, spend to get them?"

Clopin and Homer glanced at each other, as if they were unsure how to respond to the question that she had posed them, Homer's look rather pleading. It was as if they were communicating telepathically, for seconds later, the elder shrugged his shoulder's casually, and the other cringed and looked away from the fifteen-year-old girl standing just feet away from them.

"Well?" She asked, an eyebrow lifted, drawing some sort of bad sign from the two's actions.

"As for the egg question, I'm not sure," Clopin said, scratching his chin as if he were thinking.

"And, how much money did you spend?" She asked, tapping her foot impatiently on the street.

It was here that Clopin laughed and brought his hands up behind his head in a sort of flustered manner, and his smile widened guiltily.

"Spend?" He said, echoing her words. "Well, rest assured you don't have to worry about that, dearest Serina!"

That was when the woman lost all thoughts of tolerance. Her face turned red, and Clopin, despite the seriousness at the moment, couldn't help but laugh. Homer, feeling rather differently, saw the pulsating veins on the side of his cousin's neck and couldn't help but feel a little frightened. He swore he could see steam exiting her ears, and that he could even hear it! But he was mistaken; there was no steam, and that high pitched squeal that he had heard at the moment was originating from Serina's own throat, which was gurgling with anger as she searched for the right words to use.

"Nice to see you understand, sister," he said gaily, though he flipped further away from her, as if he understood what was coming up.

"Clopin...you scoundrel, you-you idiot...you STOLE THEM!" The last bit was a scream, that echoed far across the square and was said could be heard by the gypsies that watched the caravan, sitting in a field near the outer skirts of the village. People's head turned at the noise, but none knew where it was coming from, for Serina had made her way into the alley and had disappeared from sight.

"Oh, look at that," Clopin said in a sickeningly sweet voice, "she likes me!"

Serina advanced with hands curled like an eagle's talons, as if she were readying herself for an upcoming attack. Homer sidled away, being only in the background of the problem, and luckily not the reason for that freakish glower that was distorting her face. For every step forward, Clopin took a step backward, and that smile was beginning to fade just a little bit. Soon, his back was against the white wall that blocked the Senora's backyard and his escape. But not by too much, for, as I had stated earlier, Clopin was very much capable of climbing. So, he quickly made his way to the top of the brick wall, and there he stood, just away from Serina's reach.

Serina stood beneath, not as flexible nor strong as her cousin, arms crossed, yelling for him to come down.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, dear sister!" he said, sticking out a vulgar tongue and laughing loudly. "And over the rainbow we go!"

And with that, he turned to the backyard, and into supposed safety. But, before he could take a jump down, a large shriek sounded, and the lady, with still several shards of eggshell in her black hair, stood below him.

"GITANO!" she shrieked, an enraged look on her face. "You did this to me! PAGANO! GET OF MY WALL!"

And she swung the shaft of a large broom at him, and he fell backward in surprise off the wall. With an uncomfortable, butt-crunching land on the sandy floor, he ended up on his back, and at the mercy of the raging bull before him.

"You are going to re-earn every cent that should have been spent on eggs that we should have been able to eat, and you are going to give it to that woman with a personal apology!" She said in a low whisper, her hand once again in Clopin's cowl, this time her foot on his poor stomach. "That includes you too, Homer!" She added without glancing backward at the pudgy gypsy behind her. Just in time, too, for he was almost completely out of the alley and into the clear. He was just about as honorable as our dear Clopin, if not less.

And, throughout the square could be heard a squeal and a yelp, and out from an old alleyway came two young boys. It was a prodigious leap, as if they had been thrown, and though the fall was hard, they did not tarry on the dry ground long. It was as if something was at their heels; they ran with a speed near inhuman down the old road, out the square and through the gate. Nobody was sure just what the reason was, but they could have sworn that they heard a beast screaming after them, for it had to be some great creature to scare a gypsy.

A/N: Okay, that's the end. I know that the finish of the prologue wasn't so good, but hey, it's late, and I'm tired. I hope you enjoyed, and now it's time for you to click on that little box and review to either lift up my esteem or crush it to the ground. Whichever. Oh, and, if you could, can you tell me your favorite characters in the story and your least favorite? It's just a simple question, and I would be happy if you told me. You cannot use Clopin. I want to rate the others. Oh, and if you can, why you like and dislike them. Thank you. Review now, if anyone is there. (Sorry for the perpetual changing of the accent thing... I am stupid.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: I dont know WHY I put a continuation of this story up... maybe because I love it so much... but I didn't think anything good could come from my typing, typing fingers. Thank you, all of you who reviewed, and I hope, Bridgie, that your questions will be answered later on in the story (can't answer right now, I want my sister to get on), and so, Read and Review! Oh, and this chapter is dedicated to Remus, who is the one who gave me the Irish ballad I used for the story. Thank you. Bye bye!**

Chapter 1

And Admirer of Sorts

Clopin and Homer made their way down the sand-swept streets of the old Spanish hamlet, Clopin sauntering nonchalantly in front, whistling gaily, as Homer labored behind, huffing and puffing to keep up. It was not that Homer was too overweight to keep pace with his elder cousin (though he was close to it, I can assure you), nor was he too unused to running freely or bothered by the notion, even considering the heat of the yellow sun, now higher in the sky than before. I suppose, and I'm guessing you would as well, that the flute (his own), violin (Clopin's), bow (Clopin's too), sack (brought about only in case they might have need for it; Clopin's), and large crate (found in another alleyway by Clopin) that he was being forced to carry (under verdict of Clopin) had _something_ to do with it. But whatever it was that kept the thirteen year old gypsy so far behind his taller cousin, you can be sure that it was beginning to get on Clopin's nerves.

"Hurry it up, won't you, Homer?" the boy called back, looking over his shoulder at the fat gypsy as he struggled beneath his burden. "We've got Serina to deal with if we don't get back to the square in reasonable time. You don't want another chastising, do you?" Sighing in annoyance, Clopin ambled over to the shade of a building and walked along the wall, doing his best to keep from the heat of the Spanish sun.

Homer scowled indignantly at his cousin's remark and followed him into the shadows, wishing that he had something that would wipe the numerous trickles of sweat that veined his face. That ungrateful, good-for-nothing…!

"Maybe, cousin," he began slowly, trying to keep inside the anger that was accumulating toward his friend, "if I could get a little help with our things, I would go a little faster? I _am_ holding your violin you know; you might show me a little gratitude and take a bit of my burden?"

Clopin stopped for a second, his hand to his chin as if considering the idea. He then shrugged and turned back, approaching Homer with a smile.

"I suppose that _would _help our little speed problem, wouldn't it?" Clopin acceded.

"Thank you!" Homer exclaimed happily. "You wouldn't guess how heavy some of this stuff is! Do you know how hard it is to…"

Clopin plucked the light wooden flute from Homer's slight pile and rested it on his shoulder. He gave his cousin a grin.

"There," he said, turning. "Now, we must away, shouldn't we? Wouldn't want to keep the dear Serina waiting! I'm expecting you to go faster now!"

And he took off, skipping quickly along the shade as Homer stood motionless in the background.

After taking a few second to realize what his cousin had done, Homer gave out something of a growl and, in a fit of frustration, picked Clopin's violin from the bunch that he held and lifted it above his head, as if threatening to smash it against the ground. By the gods, he deserved every shattered wooden piece that would come of it, he thought, his hand shaking, his muscles prepared to destroy the instrument as much as possible. And, he supposed he would've, had he not found himself before the deed could be done. It wouldn't be right, he told himself. He lowered his arm and took a gentler grip on the violin's neck.

It was one of Clopin's most prized possessions, something that he cherished with all the vibrancy of his heart and soul. It had belonged to his father, the current king and leader of their caravan, who had decided to bequeath it upon Clopin in hopes the boy would further pursue his dreams of becoming an entertainer. It was a rare thing, to see a gypsy man be so attentive to his son, most children left to their own devices in order to realize how to survive in the world. Not to mention the fact that this was Clopin's father that he was talking about, and that Clopin would inherit the title when his father's spirit (hopefully) passed. But, then again, Homer thought, Clopin _had _been nearing that typical age when Gypsy boys and girls were betrothed and wed, which was a very important part of their culture. Clopin should be finding a wife already; he should've started looking years before! But there was something that kept the parents from choosing what the young man didn't choose himself.

Not that it was too strange. Homer himself wasn't married, and he was also thirteen like Clopin, but his parents had, apparently, been working on tying up that end. His mother and father had been sneaking off to another caravan whenever the boy wasn't paying attention, and no matter how hard he endeavored, the identity of his soon-to-be-bride would not be revealed to him, no matter how sneaky he tried to be. Which, to be completely honest, wasn't _that_ sneaky at all. Homer had given up on discovering the Gypsy girl's name. He supposed his parents would tell him when the time was right, but he had to admit to himself, it wasn't quite an enjoyable situation when he didn't know what was to happen to him in later years.

"Come on, my fat boy! What did I say about getting to the square?"

Homer looked up and noticed Clopin standing a few buildings away, having apparently come back for his cousin upon realizing his disappearance. One hand was on his hips, the other still clutched around the neck of the woodwind, and his expression was somewhat annoyed. He had thought Homer was following him; when he turned back to see that his comrade wasn't behind, he had retraced his steps, hoping that he was just out of visibility, perhaps behind a building when he had skipped around a corner. You can imagine how irritated he felt when he found the Gypsy standing in the same place that he had left him.

Clopin tapped a bare foot against the street.

"Come now! You're not going to stand there all day, are you?" he began again, seeing how the boy hadn't yet moved. "What would Serina think of you? If she asks why we were so late, you're to be left with the blame, understand?"

And with that, Clopin turned about and rushed once again down the street, turning a corner a few buildings ahead and disappearing from sight. Homer shrugged, readjusting the pile so that it wouldn't be so much of a hindrance, and started a sprint down the street.

"So nice of you to join me, Homer!" quipped Clopin, skipping carelessly backwards as Homer turned the corner.

Homer returned the smile with a sardonic one of his own, and continued forward, his fellow teenager prancing backwards accordingly.

Clopin, thought Homer, the most annoying, most sarcastic, most decisively infuriating son of a witch (with a capital "B") that he had ever known… and yet, there he was, his best friend, his most trusted comrade, the one he turned to the most, the one he chose consciously to follow, despite the consequences. In other words, his leader, a title not yet official, but still so meaningful to the thirteen year old. Homer sighed, and turned to his cousin.

"You know, Clopin," Homer started, slowing down a bit and shifting the weight on his shoulders, "I think you're the reason I am who I am."

"What, fat?" his comrade asked with a grin, an eyebrow cocked up to his forehead.

Homer rolled his eyes at his cousin's immaturity, but nodded his head in sarcasm.

"Of course that's what I mean!" he exclaimed, following the backwards skipping boy. "You see all this flab?" Homer risked a moment to free one hand and pat his stomach. "This is stress fat! If I didn't hang around you so often, I wouldn't have so much of it!"

"Well, dear Homer," Clopin started, grinning. "Perhaps if you did more what I told you to, you wouldn't, ahem, _retain_ so much. Adventure means exercise, after all!" Clopin then reached out and slapped Homer's stomach, sending waves that rippled outward. Letting out a fluty laugh, he flipped backward, landing on his hands and walked the remainder of the street in this fashion.

Homer sighed, shaking his head but smiling nonetheless. There were times when Clopin could just be a strange one.

The square was back in its ever bustling move when our two gypsy men returned, any sign of the earlier incident left only on the wall and in the Senora's hair, the town having decided to move on for fear of Senora Gloria herself. Clopin led Homer to the center, the younger gaining some attention for his strange appearance, burdened beneath so many large things.

"Here's the perfect spot!" Clopin exclaimed, putting a hand out behind him to halt Homer. He pointed to the ground with Homer's flute authoritively. "There, brother, put the crate there! And careful with my violin; don't drop it!"

Homer struggled to get the large box into one hand and placed it messily down onto the sand. He pushed it with his foot to perfect its position, and sighed, handing Clopin his violin and bow as he was passed his wooden flute.

Thanking his cousin for the instrument, Clopin leapt atop the crate as if to become more obvious to those who hadn't noticed Homer upon their entrance. The boy, wearing his usual charming smirk, attracted women over to the spot without them even knowing the goings on. Homer remained to the side, sitting upon the grit of the square, rubbing a spot off his flute in an attempt at acting casual. Clopin looked down at Homer and felt something of a worry coming into his thoughts. He knew how Homer usually reacted to their having to entertain. He was a good sport most of the time, but he understood how uncomfortable public shows made him.

Let's hope dear Homer gets through this alright, Clopin thought quietly. His eyes scanned the crowd that had begun to form, a small throng consisting mostly of women and young girls. One of which he knew. Serina edged the mass, watching in her usual manner, arms crossed, a pessimistic and bossy frown on her tan face. Clopin gave her a mocking wave, receiving a venomous glance in return. Laughing in spite of himself, he blew her a kiss, then lifted the violin to his chin.

"The second one, Homer," he whispered to his friend. "Most of the people here are women; they enjoy that type of thing."

"I don't think I can do this," Homer replied, his eyes wide and staring at the group that had begun to approach.

Clopin hushed him, patting him reassuringly on the head.

"Don't worry, Homer," he whispered gently. "I know what you're capable of. Everything will end up wonderful in the end, alright?"

Homer nodded, and tried to gulp down his fear. If Clopin trusted him with this, he supposed that everything _would_ be fine, wouldn't it? It wasn't like Clopin would lie to him about something so important… Homer's heart seemed to stop for a second, weighing the possibility, but he ended up shaking his head. No, he wouldn't lie… that wasn't like him… he hoped. He sighed, finally stopped rubbing his flute, and readied himself for what was to come.

Clopin plucked a few notes on the instrument, signifying to Homer the start of the show, then brought his bow to the string.

Immediately, Clopin began the melody, slow and gentle, a mixture of sadness and bliss, warmth and cold, something strange and unbelievable that grabbed more the attention of those around.

Here, Homer joined in, playing a low note that gradually lifted, and soon enough, he was well into the song, forgetting his anxious feelings and melting into the melody. The square became quiet, dominated by the lilting tones of Homer's flute and Clopin's violin, the women crowded about the crate transfixed on the music, those who remained where they were respectful enough to keep silence.

Finally, Clopin opened his mouth and began to sing.

_When a man's in love, he feels so cold, as I not long ago,_

_As a hero bold, to see his girl he trudged through frost and snow_

_The moon, she gently shed her light along his dreary way,_

_Until at length, he came to the spot where his sleeping lover lay._

If there was one thing that young Clopin was good at, it was singing. He had a voice, different from the voices of others, high and fluty, yet deep with meaning. His expression seemed somewhat preoccupied with the music, as if he were sinking into the depths of the song, experiencing the romance of the words. He could sing a whole number of songs, from different genres and styles, but the one variety that he seemed to be made for was romance. He played as he sang, able to do so well, unlike many he knew. Homer played a quick sequence of soft notes.

_He knocked on his love's window saying "My dear, are you within?"_

_Softly she undid the latch and slyly he slid in._

_His hands were soft; her breath was sweet; whispered pledges of love said he._

_He stole a kiss from his beloved princess and asked her to be his bride_

There was something of a waver of interest that ran through the crowd at this verse. Clopin let his fingers fly up and down the neck of the violin.

"_Oh, come and marry me my love; flee from this stone bed._

_Come and marry me my love, to be with me instead."_

"_But to marry you, my sweet love, my parents would never agree! _

_So sit you down there by yonder fire, and I'll sit close by thee."_

Another murmur resounded amongst the throng, the young women standing about the teenager whispering to one another, giggling almost mischievously as Clopin continued. Clopin watched with a certain interest, realizing the enjoyment that those girls seemed to feel toward the romance story.

As a teenager, one would expect the young Gypsy to have gained something of a curiosity toward women, especially pretty teenage girls, who formed the majority of the group of listeners. Unfortunately for these young women, our Clopin hadn't yet gained enough of an interest of them to begin a relationship. He was a magnificent flirt, though. My only explanation to this would be that he liked the attention.

"_Many is the time I've courted you in secret, against your parents' will;_

_But run away and be my bride…" "Oh, please, my love, be still."_

"_Tonight I must flee this land, to far off distant shore;_

_And ye shall never ever see thy youthful lover more."_

Clopin allowed a little strength into his voice, to demonstrate love and desperation, his fingers still wandering up and down the strings. His eyes closed slightly, falling gently back into the comfort of his singing, enjoying the easiness he felt as his voice followed the lilting notes. When he opened his eyes, he noted a slight waver in the crowd, and saw, parting a path through the mass with abilities unknown, a young girl.

She had long, auburn hair, two red lips that at the moment were parted into an astonished "O", and two green eyes that were transfixed upon the Gypsy. A long dress flowed about her in the wind, of a material different from those other young women about her, reflecting more the image of a noble than that of the modest town. He lifted a brow at the unusual way that she looked upon him. It was familiar, but he wasn't quite sure he liked it.

"_Oh are you going to leave me now? Oh pray what can I do? _

_Shall I break through every bond of my home, and come along with you?_

…_I know my parents won't forget; ah but surely they'll forgive._

_So, from this hour, I am resolved – along with you I'll live."_

Here, the song was coming to a close, and Clopin and Homer's instruments played fast, yet gently, until, finally, it ended, concluding with a final low note from Clopin's violin, and a high one from Homer's flute, representing the joining of a woman and man. There was a short moment when silence followed the ending, Clopin and Homer lowering their instruments, and taking a bow. Then, a small smattering of applause began, and soon enough, the rest of the crowd broke into sincere clapping. Clopin glanced at Homer with a smile. The other, breathing hard as if from a passing fright, returned it with one of his own, winking for their triumph.

Soon after the show, the crowd dispersed, flipping coins happily to the young boys so that the ground about the two sparkled with currency. Clopin smiled broadly. This was definitely enough.

Homer and Clopin got on their hands and knees to pick up the money, dropping those retrieved into the sack that they had brought along.

Homer was ecstatic.

"This is a lot more than I thought we'd get!" he said, lifting a coin up to examine it in the light. "I mean, I did mess up just a little… sorry about coming in too late with that note, Clopin…"

Clopin let out a friendly laugh.

"No worries, my friend," he said smilingly.

The sun beat down upon them as they moved swiftly to complete their work, and it wasn't long before Clopin straightened out his back and wiped a trickle of sweat that was running down the side of his narrow face.

"By the gods, I wish I had a hat," he muttered, shaking his head. He sighed and bent back downward to continue his task.

"You'd look good in one."

Clopin started for a moment, not recognizing the voice that had responded to him. It wasn't Homer, he thought, furrowing his brow. Was it?

Clopin lifted his head slightly, and noted a pair of legs standing before his face.

No, thought he, not Homer. His legs were never so shapely, nor did he find it quite as amusing as Clopin did to wear a dress.

The Gypsy looked upward, placing an open hand above his eyes to block out the blazing sun. His lips straightened out, and he did his best to ignore the urge to shake his head in annoyance. It was that girl, the one who had parted the crowd. She had such a ridiculous smile upon her face, her hands held behind her back as if in a coy manner.

"Oy, look, Clopin!" Homer said, noticing Clopin and the young woman. He had, like his cousin, noticed that curious look upon the girl's face when she had arrived. "It's your girlfriend!"

Clopin shot Homer a look slathered copiously with venom. Homer shrunk back somewhat, coughing uneasily into his hand and pretending to return to his work. When Clopin returned to the girl, he saw, with a shudder of annoyance, that she was blushing furiously at Homer's comment. He rolled his eyes beneath his hand. For some reason, he didn't feel too much like flirting with this one. There was something about her that quite annoyed him…

"Hello," she finally said, taking out a lace fan from her belt, trying to hide her blush behind its white fabric. "My name is Emilia. I saw your show…"

Clopin lifted a weary brow.

"Yes?" he asked, wondering whether or not this conversation would have any relevance at all.

Emilia seemed somewhat surprised at this reply, obviously used to something different. She lowered her fan for a moment, coughing uneasily.

"Um… I was, I was the girl? The one… the one in the audience?" she muttered uneasily, looking at him almost desperately.

Clopin did not falter for a moment.

"Yes…?" he repeated, dropping a few coins into the sack.

Homer laughed at the response.

"Oh, very smooth, Clopin," he said, approaching and slapping Clopin on the back. "Don't worry," he told Emilia. "He's just shy."

Emilia giggled at the news, lifting the fan once again to her face.

"Oh, I see!" she squeaked, another crimson blush taking her cheeks.

Clopin turned, eyebrow arched, to look at Homer.

"I am?" he asked, sarcasm clinging to his voice.

Homer coughed into his hand.

Clopin looked back at Emilia shaking his head.

"I'm not shy," he told her, trying his best to get her to realize his disinterest without being too rude. Last time he was rude to a noble, the whole troupe had been ousted from the village, and Uncle Rye had given him quite a beating. He didn't want to relive the experience. "At all," he added to strengthen his comment.

He pointed his thumb over his shoulder at Homer, who had been watching quietly from behind.

"You seem to like the shy type," he said, bending back downward. "Talk to him."

Emilia glanced at Homer over Clopin, and, within milliseconds, had a look of disgust upon her face.

"Actually," she said, looking back down at the Gypsy who was bent before her, "I think I'd much rather talk to you."

Homer was indignant. What exactly was she saying about him? He was desirable, wasn't he!

Clopin glanced back up at her apathetically.

"Oh?" he muttered. "Why? Is there something you need, miss?"

"I'd just like to talk to you!" Emilia said, giggling. "You just seem so interesting!"

Clopin stood up, no more coins in his area, and he gave her a look, tucking a lock of hair behind his earring.

"Well," he said, cracking his back, "I'm not. Now, if you'll excuse me…"

With that, Clopin brushed past the young woman to retrieve a few stray coins to the side. Emilia turned to look at him, looking somewhat dismayed at his response to her interest, her fan lowering to her side sadly. Homer watched the two of them with more than a little annoyance. First, with Emilia, for having looked upon him with such disgust, and Clopin, for suggesting she looked at him in the first place! He was somewhat conscious of his looks (a lot more than Clopin, it seemed, though I doubt Clopin needed quite as much care as Homer did), and any bad attention it got irritated him greatly.

"He's lying!" he said suddenly, his actions fueled by his annoyance. "If you ever find anyone more interesting, I'll eat my bandana!"

Clopin seemed to shiver for a moment, feeling the cold sting of an insult, though the words that his cousin uttered seemed far from one. He turned swiftly and cast another glare upon Homer, in hopes of discouraging him again. But, instead of doing what he hoped and frightening his cousin into backing down from whatever scheme he had evolved in his head, he received a nasty look. Clopin's frown deepened. What was the bastard up to?

"Oh, you're so shy!" Emilia said with another titter, and she reached around Clopin's waist and under his arms to give him a hug. Clopin jumped. Emilia looked up with him, a mischievous look on her face. "Don't worry," she told him. "I don't bite."

"Well, I do!" Clopin rejoindered, pushing her away as gently as he could despite his exasperation. He looked upon her, slightly repulsed, and tried again to make a path away from her. "Excuse me, miss!"

Emilia watched as he moved a short ways to the side, and ran an interested finger along her two lips. She was sure she knew his type. Another shy little boy who was so totally unsure of his feelings that he hid any bit of attraction that he felt. She let out another of her giggles (which were becoming so horribly annoying at this point), and approached Clopin with a strengthened resolve. Homer watched this from his perch behind them, and he rolled his eyes in growing disgust.

"Oh, mister…" she fell quiet for a moment, then released a laugh. "Oh, you've forgotten to give me your name! Tell me, what is it? You don't have to be shy!"

Clopin was motionless for a moment, as if in thought. Homer watched with a curious eye… he didn't see his face, but there seemed something of a warning in his stance. It wasn't often that his cousin was still, especially not for such a long period of time such as this.

Finally, Clopin turned around and made his way to Emilia, taking long purposeful strides, his face twisted with a mischievous grin. He stopped right before her, towering over her, standing at least a head above her. He leaned in so that their faces were straight across from one another, and his smile broadened, almost evilly.

"You couldn't handle my _shyness_," he hissed, his voice straining the word _shyness_ as if it were something that she should fear.

Emilia didn't take this to be quite frightening; actually, she thought this to be an attempt at flirting with her. She gave him an impish smile of her own.

"That's what they all say, oh nameless one," she muttered, quirking her eyebrow.

Clopin leaned in closer, a strange look on his face. Homer watched, not completely understanding what was going on. What was he doing? He wouldn't possibly do what it appeared he was going to do…

POOF!

In a sudden explosion of light and pink smoke, Clopin disappeared, and Emilia was left alone, her eyes closed and her mouth puckered forward as if expecting something.

"Flirt," Homer muttered disdainfully, rolling his eyes.

Emilia's eyes fluttered open suddenly at the sudden barrage of light, and, noticing the fading fog and the young man's disappearance, she let out a sudden exclamation. "What happened?" she asked, looking about her in fright.

As she asked this, Clopin reappeared nearby, leaning casually against the wooden cart of an apple vendor. Flipping the man a coin as he watched the girl from behind, he snatched an apple from the wagon and took a bite.

Homer, on the other hand, noticed Clopin almost instantly, quite used to his friend's antics, and decided that, if the boy was going to go at such great lengths to get away from this girl, some mischief might be possible. Homer turned to Emilia with a playful grin.

"It's his way of saying he likes you," the Gypsy boy told her, shooting Clopin a grin. "He's shy, like I said."

Emilia nodded, putting a hand to her chin in thought.

"That's adorable," she said, giggling. "But, maybe he needs a little encouragement to his confidence…" She snapped her fingers as an idea came to her. "I know! My family is having a party at our house in four days. Maybe he could come and play his violin for them! I know that they'd love him!"

Homer glanced at Clopin, a thought entering his head.

"He'd _love_ to," he told her with a smile. "He's my cousin, so I just _know_ he would."

Clopin watched with horror as his cousin agreed to the fiesta without consultation, and, in a fit of anger, threw his half-eaten apple at Homer's head. It hit Homer with a frightening precision, but the boy just shook it off.

"You…" Clopin mouthed angrily, pointing an accusatory finger at his cousin.

"Alright then!" Emilia said, not realizing that a mysterious projectile had been deliberately aimed and thrown at Homer's head. "Tell him that I'll see him there!"

And, still giggling, she skipped off, tucking her fan gaily back into her hip sash.

Seconds later, Homer was clutching his sides, laughing so raucously it seemed he would choke on his own happiness.

"Man, that hurt!" he said after a moment, catching his breath, but still chuckling. He rubbed the spot where the apple had made its connection.

Clopin watched Emilia's figure until it disappeared, and, with a horrid glare, he descended upon Homer, his teeth clenched angrily.

"You, my friend," he hissed, approaching, "are so doomed."

Homer was in too good a mood for his cousin's words to affect him too much.

"You heard her, amigo!" he chortled. "She'll be waiting for you!"

Clopin let out a strained sigh.

"Too bad," he said, looking down at his cousin.

Homer finally began feeling uncomfortable. He gulped uneasily and took a step or two backwards, away from his cousin.

"Um…Clopin?"

"I'm a no show," Clopin continued, a smile beginning to form on his face. "Guess who'll be going in my place."

"Um… Uncle Matthias?" Homer asked, hoping against hope that Clopin wasn't devising the plan that he thought he was devising.

"Wrong," Clopin replied bluntly. "Go on… Guess."

Homer shrugged, looking about him for a place to escape. Not that it would make a difference anyway. Clopin was always so much faster than he was.

"Let me give you a hint," he said at length. "YOU."

Homer wrinkled his forehead.

"Well, that's not so much a hint as it is an answer but… hey… wait just a minute! There is no chance that that's going to happen! No way!"

"Well, it was more of a demand than a request, my dearest Homer," Clopin said, bearing down on him. "You got yourself into it. Quit while you're slightly behind."

Homer growled in anger.

"Clopin, you son of a –"

"Okay, you two, you remember the deal."

The two half-jumped and turned. Serina stood, her stance authorative as usual, just five paces away, an expectant look on her face.

She approached the two, hands on her hips.

"The eggs, the money, the apology."

Clopin let out a sigh.

"Right…" he muttered, turning away from Homer. "The eggs, the money, the apology, the deal."


End file.
